


Sometimes Life is Tragic

by MadameCristal



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Future Fic, Hunter Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 17:08:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3257738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameCristal/pseuds/MadameCristal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"That should have been the end of it; he should have gone home, like he had planned. But he knew as he watched the flames dance over the two halves of Peter’s body, that he wouldn’t, couldn’t. Not because it would hurt; hurt you could heal from. No, he couldn’t go home because he felt <em>nothing</em>, and the people he had once loved didn’t deserve that in their lives."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes Life is Tragic

**Author's Note:**

> This is un-beta, so all mistakes are mine!

_Sometimes life is tragic._

That’s what they’d said at his funeral after graduation. That it was a tragedy. That he was so young and full of life. Nobody said anything about werewolves or fucking murder. And nobody had mentioned him. He wasn’t sure which part frustrated him more. That it was a _fucking tragedy_ or that literally nobody had one story that involved him. 

Because Scott had been his **BEST FRIEND** since they were eight. Stiles had been there when Peter Hale had ripped out his heart for the alpha spark. But nobody talked about that. Nobody talked about where the murderous bastard had disappeared to. They spoke of how he was in a better place with Allison, his first love. They told stories of lacrosse games, his love for animals, and that one summer he lived and breathed SAT words. 

Nobody mentioned Stiles because he wasn’t there. Or at least they thought he wasn’t. He had watched from afar, behind someone else’s gravestone. Just to see what they said about Scott. And the more they talked, the angrier he got. At some point it started to rain, and really it should because losing Scott was a loss of sunshine in this world. Eventually they all left. And he went over to Scott’s grave, sat down in the mud and rain, and talked to his best friend.

“Hey buddy. So they didn’t mention it. The whole murder thing. I know you would have worried about your mom, if they did. And holy shit, a lot of people came. You were definitely the hot girl today. More people came than showed up for Allison. I’m sure that’s a big debate up there between you two; but you won that one. You probably didn’t guess that there wouldn’t be any Stiles-stories though. It’s because I couldn’t sit out here with all of them. Which I guess cut down on Scott-stories. I’m sorry. That’s what I really wanted to say. I’m sorry I didn’t figure out what Peter was up to. I’m sorry I didn’t stop him. But mostly I’m sorry that it was you and not me. Because I was there that night. The first night he made you a werewolf and the last night that he took that from you. I wish it had been me because, Scotty, I don’t think I know how to be without you. You could have done it, I think. But I can’t. So I guess I also came to say goodbye too. I’m taking the jeep and my duffel bag and heading down south. I love you, Scotty. You were my best friend. And I’m going to get him for you.” And with that, Stiles left Beacon Hills.

And he went south; stalked Peter through California to the Mexico border. And he’d made a plan, because Peter was cunning, yes, but he was overconfident with his new stolen power. And Stiles shot him through the heart will a wolfsbane bullet, cut his body in half, and burned the man who murdered his best friend, for good measure. That should have been the end of it; he should have gone home, like he had planned. But he knew as he watched the flames dance over the two halves of Peter’s body, that he wouldn’t, couldn’t. Not because it would hurt; hurt you could heal from. No, he couldn’t go home because he felt _nothing_ , and the people he had once loved didn’t deserve that in their lives. They deserved their memories of Scott and his best friend, the person he could no longer be. So he’d squared his shoulders and headed farther from Beacon Hills. He would hunt the true monsters, others like Peter. Because maybe that way he could protect others like Scott from the fate his best friend had met. Maybe he could protect them in the way he could never protect Scott. 

And so he did, going where he was needed and leaving in the night before the dust settled. Stiles hunted the monsters that even other monsters were afraid of.

Sometimes he thinks that he should have nightmares of the night Scott was killed. Or nightmares of the night he took his first life. Or maybe nightmares of guilt for the people he’s left behind. But he doesn’t. Seven years and Stiles nightmares are still always of Scott’s funeral. His nightmares are of people that didn’t know his best friend like he did, telling stories about him. And maybe it’s partly because he knows Scott would be disappointed in his life now. Scott would disapprove of every decision he’d made since the moment he didn’t sit with Mrs. McCall at that damn funeral. But Scott isn’t here to disapprove. And Stiles can’t bring himself to actually care about things that aren’t here. 

Stiles lays down on the creaky twin bed and stares up in the dark at the ceiling. The room that he’s currently renting is cheap, musty, and easy. He pays the motel owner in cash each week, and leaves for a new motel whenever he feels like it. They’re all the same really. He reaches over next to the bed for the tequila. This is his typical routine in the morning. Dark curtains drawl, drinking tequila till he passes out for a while. Then he’ll wake up and consult his file of “big bad super naturals” to find his next target. This is his life. Alone, reeking of tequila, and hunting things down.  
There is a loud banging on his door. Which can really only mean one thing, because there is only one person who ever comes banging on Stiles’ door. He twists the lid back on the tequila and pulls his favorite of Scott’s old t-shirts over his head as he opens the door. 

“Fuck you. No. Whatever it is, no.” he says shutting the door in the man’s face. The man knocks again on the door; because it’s never that easy with him. Stiles knows that the man will wait all day and night for him to open the door again. He knows because the first time the man showed up at one of his cheap motel doors was about a year after he left Beacon Hills, and Stiles had shut the door in his damn face. And the next day **he was still there.** And every couple months or so, somehow, the man tracks him to his newest shitty motel, bangs on his door, and asks for help. And once he helps the man, he will once again be left alone with his tequila, creaky bed, and numbness. He sighs and opens the door.

“What do you want, Chris?” he asks opening his door fully to let the man into his room. Chris makes a face at Stiles and comes inside, sitting on the edge of his bed.

“Fuck Stiles, you reek of tequila. Seriously. And you’re still wearing his clothes. It’s been seven years,” Chris gestures to his shirt, making that face of disapproval again. 

“You interrupted my sleeping, so you don’t get to complain about the tequila. And don’t talk about him, Chris. Or I’m throwing you out now,” Stiles says with gritted teeth. He sits down next to Chris, waiting for the older man to begin his problem. 

“It’s a wendigo, well three of them actually. They’re preying on tourists. I’ve traced 17 missing persons back to them. I just need a little help taking them out. Should be just a one day job, and then you can go back to the tequila,” Chris tells him taking a swig of the tequila sitting by the bed. Stiles notices there is no grimace because Chris also has a taste for tequila at times, more often than he probably admits. 

“Okay. Tonight then. I need a little rest today. What time?” Stiles says lying back on the bed again. 

“Nine. That gives you eight hours. That should be plenty of time. We both know you don’t sleep that much anyway,” Chris shrugs and lays back on the twin with Stiles. He closes his eyes. He does not care if Chris disapproves of the excessive tequila or the fact that he wears Scott’s shirts still or that he hardly sleeps. Who is Chris to judge him? The guy that watched his wife kill herself, buried his only child, and killed his sister? No, Chris Argent isn’t someone who can judge him. Hell, he’s probably more messed up than Stiles himself. 

“Lock the door if you’re going to crash my sleeping time,” Stiles growls with his eyes closed. It won’t be long before the tequila does the trick and he’s asleep. He breathes evenly as he feels the bed lurch as Chris gets up to lock the door and then settle again as Chris lies back down.

Six hours later, Stiles screams awake. This is in fact how Stiles wakes up every day. And it’s not the first time that Chris has seen it. He just throws an arm across Stiles’ chest to hold him still and waits. Finally the screaming stops and Stiles opens his eyes. Stiles says nothing as he moves to get out of bed and gets dressed. He doesn’t have to. Chris knows death and nightmares. Stiles has seen his nightmares a time or two, and they aren’t pretty things to witness.

“We have a little time. You wanna order some food before we head out?” Chris asked, already flipping through the takeout menus sitting on the bedside table. Stiles pulls out one from the stack and puts it on top.

“Do the tamales. They deliver quickly and it’s cheap,” he states throwing his few clothes into his duffle. He loads his gun with bullets and puts it in the waistband of his jeans. The last thing he gets is his silver baseball bat wrapped with barbed wire infused with wolfsbane. It never hurts to have the bat, just in case. A short fifteen minutes later, Chris is paying for a bag of fresh tamales. They eat in silence while sitting on the hotel bed, the bag of tamales open between them. 

After they finish eating, Stiles grabs his duffel bag and bat and follows Chris out the door. His week is up at this motel, and he’s not paying for another one. It’s time to move on to a new dive motel. Chris raises an eyebrow at him.

“Not planning on coming back?” he points to the bag. Stiles shrugs his shoulders.

“Nah. I’m done here,” he says moving towards his old Jeep. Chris had parked next to him with his shiny black SUV. “Way to be inconspicuous. Fucking Argent.” Stiles glares at the older man. Chris doesn’t even react.

“Whatever. We’re taking my horrid SUV because I doubt that Jeep could even make it out there. Just leave your Jeep wherever you’re planning on staying next. I’ll follow you. Then we can go hunting after that.” Chris turns and gets into his large SUV ready to follow Stiles. He drives a few miles to a motel on the outskirts of Mexico City. Turning off the engine, he grabbed his bag and threw it is Chris’s SUV.

“Just in case,” Stiles shrugs and they head out in the desert to the wendigo camp. The actual battle isn’t much of a fight. Stiles and Chris are able to take down the first two wendigo with ease. The third tries to escape into the dessert, but Chris is able to pierce his heart with a well-placed arrow. Stiles gets closer and shoots him in the head for good measure. Stiles always thinks that seeing death or killing the bad guys will make him feel _something_. It never does.

“Arrows, Chris? Really? And you were harping on a fucking shirt,” Stiles mutters. Chris ignores him; the arrows are something that Stiles always points out just like Chris always points out his tee shirts. Chris stares out the windshield, driving to the new motel that Stiles dropped off his Jeep at. When they arrive, they both get out. Stiles checks in, paying upfront for a week in cash. Chris trails after him and into the room. 

Moments after they are in the room, Chris pushes him up against the door, kissing him feverishly. This, too, was a usual part of Stiles’ life. Stiles parts his lips to allow Chris access with his tongue while pulling on the hem of Chris’s shirt. They break apart momentarily to pull their shirts off. Stiles’ skin is on fire as he pushes his chest to Chris’s. Stiles uses his apt fingers to undo the button of Chris’s pants. He pushes the jeans and boxers to the floor. Stiles grabs Chris in his hand and gives a few short tugs before pushing off the door and leading them to the bed. Chris maneuvers his hands down Stiles’ torso to the button of his jeans. He quickly undoes the button and pushes Stiles out of his pants and boxers. Without removing his lips from Chris’s, Stiles forces them both on the bed. Chris groans in Stiles’ mouth as Stiles again grabs his hard-on. Stiles pulls back trailing kisses down Chris’s chest to his hips and up his shaft. Chris moans. Stiles gives a quick swipe with his tongue up and down Chris’s full length before taking the older man into his mouth. Stiles moves his head up and down, occasionally letting his tongue play with the tip of Chris’s cock. Stiles continues his sucking with vigor until he’s having trouble breathing but still not wanting Chris’s cock to leave his mouth. Chris makes another strangled sounding moan so Stiles knows he’s close.

“Stiles, the lube. It’s in my pants pocket,” Chris grunts and Stiles pulls back from the older man’s dick with a _pop_ , hopping off the bed. He’s back though, kissing Chris’s neck before the other man can really move. The perks of youth, he thinks. Stiles hands him the lube, getting situated back on the bed with his ass on display for Chris. Because tonight Chris is doing the fucking. Chris squirts a generous amount of lube on his fingers and slowly pushes one finger into Stiles’ ass. Chris moves his finger in a sensual circular motion to loosen him up, quickly adding another finger. And Stiles moans and pushes into Chris’s fingers. He turns his head to capture Chris’s lips in a wet kiss as Chris adds a third finger, opening Stiles up even more. They continue that way for a while, until Stiles is moaning louder.

“Chris. _Now_. Ready now,” Stiles whines turning fully to give Chris a filthy kiss. And Chris doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s already leaking pre-cum as he grabs the lube again and dumps a large amount into his palm. He rubs it up and down the full length of his cock and then reaches for Stiles. And when he fucks Stiles, it isn’t gentle. Chris fills Stiles full of his cock, bottoming out, only to pull back and do it again with quick, firm thrusts. The sounds Chris makes are a mix between powerful grunts and lustful moans. 

“Fuck. Stiles!” Chris moans as he comes and Stiles pushes his ass back even more. He can feel the warm spurts inside him, but the only movement he makes is to lean back, giving Chris access to the front of his body. Chris reaches his muscular arm around Stiles, grabbing his hard-on. He’s already leaking and with three shorts tugs, Stiles is following Chris in orgasmic ecstasy. They stay like that for a few minutes before Chris slowly pulls out from inside Stiles, and Stiles gets up. He heads to the bathroom to clean up with a quick shower. Chris joins him in the shower, but only a few lavish kisses are exchanged. They are both worn out, from the hunting and the sex.

Later, after showering and brushing his teeth, Stiles is dressed in a clean pair of boxers and another of Scott’s old tee shirts. He turns off the lights and then climbs into bed with Chris, who looks at Stiles shirt but makes no mention of it. Chris is lying on his back and looking out the window at the stars, bright against the black of the night sky. Stiles looks at the older man and wonders if he’s thinking about Allison. He probably is. He knows that thinking of Scott always makes Chris think of Allison. Stiles sighs, and Chris looks over at him.

“You should go home, Stiles. I’m sure they miss you, especially your dad,” Chris tells him. Stiles flips onto his back and stares at the ceiling. He’s sure that they do, especially his dad. But he’s also sure that the Stiles they miss isn’t him. Because they miss the Stiles that would have gone to Stanford, roomed with his best friend, and graduated with a degree in criminal justice. Maybe that Stiles would have continued dating Malia and eventually married her. Or maybe that Stiles would have admitted his attraction to men and asked Derek out. That Stiles definitely would have stood beside Scott at his wedding and given the greatest best man speech afterwards. But without Scott, that Stiles did not exist. And the Stiles that did exist wasn’t someone that anyone would miss, save maybe for Chris Argent. He sighed turning on his side and staring at Chris.

“It’s better this way. For them to miss who I could have been without seeing the disappointment of who I’ve become,” Stiles responds. For a moment, they just stare at each other. Then Chris gives a short nod, and Stiles knows he won’t bring it up again. And really that’s all Stiles needs, someone who he can’t disappoint. And he thinks, all Chris needs is someone to have his back in a firefight and to go down on him afterwards. So it’s not a relationship; it’s not perfect, this thing between them. But it’s real. Because when he’s with Chris, he feels _something_. Which is better than the nothingness he feels in the rest of his life. So he moves closer to Chris, lying his head on Chris’s chest and closes his eyes. Because fuck it. He doesn’t love this man. Never will. He’s not sure he’s actually capable of love anymore. But this man makes him _feel_ , and he doesn’t want to be numb again until he shows back up in a couple months. 

“Chris, I’m coming with you. Wherever you’re going next, to kill whoever, I’m coming,” Stiles says quietly with his eyes closed, not moving his head. He can’t tell if Chris nods or smiles or rolls his eyes. 

“Figures, just when I’m heading somewhere interesting. Now you want to help with the killing. But okay Stiles, you can stay with me as long as you want,” Chris says to him. And he sounds like he doesn’t really care. But Stiles knows he doesn’t want to be alone anymore either. Because sometimes Stiles can make him forget, about Allison, about Victoria, about Kate, about Gerard; even it’s only for a few minutes. Because a few minutes of forgetting with Stiles is more than Chris gets without Stiles. So it’s not a relationship and it’s not perfect, but _sometimes life is tragic_.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote ANGST and SMUT! Ahhh, let me know how you think that went... You're all the best!
> 
> Come play with me on [tumblr](http://madamecristal.tumblr.com/)! ♥


End file.
